


Solace

by thebearking



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gender-neutral Reader, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutant Reader, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Sam Wilson Feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7753126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebearking/pseuds/thebearking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission gone awry on your behalf, you find solace in Sam. You've gone to him after every mission, and you don't know why you keep going back, or why he stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> so the reader is similar to el diablo from the dc universe, but with less fire. the reader is possessed by a hircine demon and can take the demon's form on command.
> 
> the demon faintly resembles the reader in terms of hair color and skin tone, but most of its features are altered. the demon, codenamed "hellion," is approximately ten feet tall. it has longer, wilder hair than the reader's. its nails are more like talons, razor-sharp and about six inches long. it has a long tail tipped with a tuft of hair. its face barely resembles the reader at all; it is elongated and creepy, with fangs and fiery yellow eyes with slit pupils and black sclera. two horns curve from hellion's forehead, similar to a goat's. its legs are long, muscular, and shaped like an animal's hindlimbs with hooves for feet. hellion has increased strength, speed, and agility that rival that of the hulk. it is usually on fire, especially when the reader initially transforms.

You were jittery even before the quinjet took off. You sat with your head down, eyes staring blankly at the floor, attempting to keep a neutral expression. Your nervous leg betrayed you, jiggling fast and erratically as you thought about the mission ahead. You didn’t even notice it until a hand landed on your thigh and squeezed gently. You looked up to see Sam, sitting beside you, his eyes warm and comforting as ever. _You’ll be fine,_  he was telling you without even speaking.

Through your anxiety, you managed a strained smile. He had that effect on you, always getting you to smile when you were distressed. He raised the hand that had been on your thigh to your cheek, cupping your face in his hand so you’d face him. You leaned into his touch, wishing to feel more of him. You were going to need more of his touch tonight. You always needed Sam after a mission. The physical and emotional toll always seemed to be too much for you to handle, until Sam was in your bed, in your arms, holding you and reminding you that you were strong enough to be on this team.

He was always so good to you, always rubbing your cheek with the pad of his thumb, always pulling you in to press a kiss to your forehead like he did just now, his lips lingering before detaching with an exaggerated smack.

You snorted. “Goofball,” you muttered, and Sam grinned, eyes twinkling. You decided right then and there that brown eyes were your favorite. He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him for the rest of the ride.

Infiltrating the Hydra facility was easy enough. Clint and Bucky took out the guards on the upper level with arrow and bullet, respectively, while Nat and Steve incapacitated the guards on the first floor. Sam and Tony entered the base from above, crashing through the glass ceiling. Steve motioned you forward, and you crept out of the quinjet, struggling to slow your breathing.

 _Slow, keep it slow, everything slow_ , you told yourself as you followed Steve into the facility. _Slow down and you can keep control. Always in control. Slow._ Sam had given you examples of how to calm yourself down, and while this jumbled mantra was much less eloquent than his advised lines, it was the best you could do when all you could hear were gunshots and boots on concrete. You flinched when Steve’s hand landed on your shoulder.

“Sorry,” he apologized, retracting his hand when he saw the panicked look in your eye. Your attention went from him to the movement across the compound. More boots against concrete. Steve’s expression turned serious; his eyes took on an encouraging light. “You’ve got this. We need you, Y/N. Go get ’em, kid. Give ’em hell.”

He didn’t call you by your codename this time. While you had agreed to that codename months ago, Director Fury hadn’t given you much of a choice, and the name “Hellion” still did things to your psyche, reminding you of your true nature. You held back any criticism about the name. Back before you had joined the team, you had encountered the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen out on the street before, crossing paths with the vigilante on occasion when you were both fixed on the same target (you had been in your hellish form at each unfortunate meeting and nearly disemboweled him in your rage when he interrupted you). You had seen all that Daredevil was capable of, all the good he could do for the community (even if it meant being a little bad), and if he could embrace such an ominous title, then so could you.

You swallowed and exhaled slowly, turning to the leagues of Hydra soldiers coming your way. Hydra had been experimenting more and more since their precious Winter Soldier had been compromised. You had read files on their enhanced subjects: some were human-animal hybrids, some were treated with pathetic copies of the super soldier serum, and some were powered with Infinity Stones, just like Wanda—Wanda, who deserved to be here, who would do better in this situation than you ever could. Your job was to annihilate each and every one of them, even the ones who weren’t mutated beyond recognition. If you tried hard enough, you could take all of them out with no problem while still being able to erase the violent act from memory.

You took a step away from Steve, moving toward the Hydra experiments at a slow pace, transitioning to a lope, then a full-on sprint as you assumed your hellish form. As you grew to your full hulking, ten-foot height and the flaming talons, fangs, horns, and tail sprouted from your body, you felt your normal self retreat into the back of your mind, letting the Hellion take its place as the rightful pilot of this operation. You usually stayed “awake” for occasions such as these, taking the passenger seat to ensure that your demonic form only killed when necessary, keeping a careful hold on the reins that tied your two selves together. Something about the way the Hydra soldiers launched themselves at you, one by one and then all at once, swarming you and tearing into you with all they had—something about the foreign feeling of _pain_  made you sit in the metaphorical “backseat” of your mind and sleep. Hellion would take care of it, you decided.

And so you let it. You let the demon rip bodies in half, wrenching heads from shoulders and shattering bones with a simple blow of your fists. You wondered if you were really sleeping, or if you had simply let your two selves blend together, intertwining until you didn’t know where you ended and the Hellion began. What you _did_ know was that you were drenched in blood and gore, and you were smiling. Through the entire whirlwind of battle, you were _smiling_ , fangs bared as enhanced soldiers came at you from all directions. A canine-human mutant barreled into you from the right, and your hand lashed out to clench around his neck, holding him off the ground. You paused and tilted your head to the side curiously, observing yourself reflected in his eyes. You saw the white-gold flames where your eyes should be and grinned, snapping his neck with one squeeze. From then on, you saw nothing, having truly been forced into the back of your mind while the Hellion wreaked havoc for you.

You could see yourself, curled up in a dark corner of your mind, trying to block out the sound of screams and the sight of blood spraying the ground, when you heard a voice. A familiar voice, telling you it was over, and that it was time for you to come back. For Y/N to come back. You were Y/N… right? You heard the name “Sam.” You knew _that_ name, but you were too sleepy, your eyes beginning to slip closed. You vaguely registered the feeling of your hands around someone’s neck, before you fell into a deep slumber. Hellion would take care of it.

You came to right before you could sink your claws into Steve’s throat—and right before Natasha knocked you out cold with a clean kick to your temple.

* * *

You awoke on the quinjet, lying on your back. Your eyes fluttered open and squinted against the blaring lights of the ceiling. You blinked rapidly, and the memories flooded your mind with visions of blood and nails tearing through flesh.

You had lost control again. You had nearly killed Steve, your captain, your teammate, your friend. You had nearly murdered him in cold blood, when all he had done was come to bring you back. You had torn into him like an enemy, ripping him open with your claws and shredding his skin like it was paper. If he weren’t a super soldier, he would be a goner. If it were Tony, Clint, even Natasha, you would have killed them. If it had been _Sam…_

You rolled onto your side and began to sit up, but a hand held you back. Sam was kneeling next to you, still in his tactical gear but without his wings. His eyes were still warm, but they clearly told you, _Stay down._

You looked past him and saw Steve, slouched in one of the quinjet seats, the entire front of his uniform stained deep red. Natasha and Bucky were patching him up, carefully helping him out of the top of his uniform. As they dabbed his skin with alcohol-infused cotton balls, your eyes connected with his. He looked away quickly, his brow wrinkled with pain.

You knew it was an emotional pain as much as it was a physical one. Steve had been the one to recruit you four years ago, when he had found you terrorizing passengers on a subway. A man had been giving a teenage girl a hard time, urging her to “give him a chance” so he could “show her a good time.” When he grabbed her wrist, you’d lost it, transforming immediately and ripping into him with your teeth and claws. You had awaken huddled in the corner of the subway car, hyperventilating, with Steve squatting in front of you, whispering that you were safe, that it wasn’t your fault and that he knew people that would help you, if you let them. All you could do was gasp for air and stare over his shoulder at the bloody mess you’d left on the floor.

What he didn’t know was that you had wanted to tear him apart. You were just too weak to hold back your deepest, darkest urges. Too weak to stop yourself at just one victim, because taking out everyone in the car sounded even better.

Since then, Steve had overseen your training, with help from the rest of the team. Bucky and Clint taught you how to handle weapons—guns, knives, bows and arrows—so you could be useful while you were in human form. Bruce knew what it was like to lose control to a monstrous form and so you spent time with him learning mental training techniques, learning to clear your mind in order to control your inner monster. By chance, you had once faced the green guy himself, proving yourself to be a worthy adversary in your Hellion form—for the first ten minutes. Then the Hulk had nearly beaten you to a pulp.

Nat became your sparring partner and close combat instructor. She operated on a system of tough love, pushing you to your limits, throwing you to the floor until you fought back with every ounce of your strength. At your very first sparring session with Nat, you had held back, allowing yourself to be thrown around like a ragdoll, until Nat slammed you to the ground for the fifth time. Your demon form had manifested with a roar, tackling Nat to the ground and pinning her there silently until you saw the genuine fear in her eyes and you managed to cool down on your own. While you were certainly more skilled than you were before joining the team, your best weapon was always your demonic form. In that form, you were faster, stronger, more agile than anyone on the team. You could outrun Steve, wrestle Natasha to the ground, snatch Sam right out of the sky when he flew past you.

 _Sam._  While everyone else taught you physical combat, Sam saw how broken you were and took on the role of your life coach, so to speak. He was there to wake you up when the urge to sleep forever won over. He was there to talk you through panic attacks and hold you when you cried after nightmares. He was there to draw you out of your demonic state when you couldn’t come out of it on your own. He was always there.

Why did he keep coming back?

“Sam,” you croaked from your spot on the floor. A tear leaked out of your eye and fell down your blood-streaked face. “Sam, I—”

“Don’t,” he urged, his tone gentle but authoritative. You sniffled, and Sam moved to pull you into his lap, but you rolled away from his touch, curling up on your side and hugging your arms to your body. Your shoulders shook with violent, soundless sobs. You could see the blood pooling around you on the mat, and you knew it wasn’t your own. At least the majority of it wasn’t.

 _Slow_ , you told yourself. Maybe if you could slow your breathing enough, it would stop. You tried that, but the crying only made you breathe harder, to the point of hyperventilation. Sam’s hand rubbed circles on your back, and you let him. You couldn’t look at him in your shameful state, but you were selfish enough to let him touch you. You laughed harshly. You had rolled away from him, rejecting his touch, and now here you were, allowing him to comfort you.

Why did he keep coming back?

* * *

By the time you got back to the tower, it was twilight. You exited the quinjet on shaky legs, fighting to keep a straight expression as you moved past Wanda and Vision and Bruce, poor Bruce who knew from the way you were acting that you had lost control again. He always knew, and you always knew when it was the other way around.

As you waited for the elevator, you heard Steve and Clint behind you. Clint assuring Steve that you were going to get better, that you could handle it. Steve telling Clint that it was probably best if you didn’t attend another mission for a while.

You agreed with him. The words brought tears to your eyes, but you agreed.

On the ride up to your floor, you allowed yourself to beat your fists against the walls of the elevator, screaming in pain and fury and fear. F.R.I.D.A.Y. asked politely if you needed assistance, which you denied, rushing out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened.

You stood in front of your room. It was across the hall from Sam’s. You knew he was many floors below you in the med bay, talking to Steve, being patched up by medics, medics who were sweet and pleasant human beings, medics who would treat Sam nicely and who wouldn’t turn into demons and try to rip him apart. Sam deserved better. So much better. You wiped furiously at the tears on your cheeks and punched in your passcode to unlock your room. You didn’t even care that you had stained the keypad with blood. You just stomped into your apartment and slammed the door behind you.

You stomped all the way to your bedroom and stripped out of your tattered and bloodied tactical gear, leaving it in a heap on the floor. Once you were down to your undershirt and underwear, you flopped down on your bed, crushing your face to the pillow. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” you mumbled.

“Yes, Y/N?”

Your fists clenched at the sound of the A.I.’s voice, always so cheerful and willing to help. You wished she would just yell at you for once. Would she, if you asked? “F.R.I.D.A.Y., no visitors for tonight,” you commanded, turning your face so the A.I. could hear you clearly.

“As you wish. Shall I have dinner brought up to your room?”

“No, that’s O.K. I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

“Of course, Y/N.”

You lay in bed for what seemed like hours, holding on to the pillow and pretending it was Sam, knowing you were smearing the once-white fabric with dried blood. Now that the adrenaline of the Hellion had completely left your system, you felt the sting of every cut, the ache of every bruise. Your injuries were few but hurt all the same. You curled up into a ball, whimpering, and again, F.R.I.D.A.Y. asked you something. You were too sore, too focused on your wounds and on finding a comfortable spot to lie in, so you simply muttered an affirmative response.

When you heard the door of your bedroom crack open, you groaned into your pillow. “I didn’t want visitors,” you growled, directing your words at the traitorously considerate A.I. For once, F.R.I.D.A.Y. was silent.

Sam settled on the side of the bed, leaning back on his hands to look at you. You fought to avoid his gaze, but you finally let your eyes lock with his. They were soft, looking you over in sympathy, or pity. You weren’t sure.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Sam said softly, standing up. You made no move to follow, but you didn’t protest when he dragged you forward by the wrists, pulling you into his arms so he could cradle you.

You stared emotionlessly ahead as Sam carried you to your bathroom, gently setting you down on the counter. Your eyes followed him as he started the shower, testing the water with his hand until he had brought it to a decent temperature. He turned back to you, drying his hands on his drawstring pants. “C’mon,” he said, indicating the shower with a nod.

You sighed and slid to the floor, padding over to him. The tile was delightfully cool on the soles of your battered feet. You stopped two feet away from Sam, but he reached out to reel you in closer. He toyed with the hem of your undershirt, eyes searching yours for permission. You looked away, pretending to be interested in the shower curtain. You raised your arms as Sam shucked the shirt from your body, leaving your upper half bare to him. He had seen you this way many times before—when he had convinced you that you were worth loving, lavishing your body with tender touches of his mouth and his fingers—but tonight you instinctively crossed your arms over your torso, hoping to hide the scars and the fresh cuts sliced into your skin.

Sam’s eyes softened knowingly, though they still traced the length of your body reverently. You almost scoffed, knowing you didn’t deserve such an admiring look from him. He knelt down, his eyes on your face the whole time as he slid your underwear down your legs. The garment pooled around your ankles, and you stepped out of them, now completely nude. The urge to hide yourself from him only increased.

Sam motioned for you to hop into the shower. You frowned at him, but he caressed your side with his fingers, squeezing your hip reassuringly. “I’ll join you,” he promised. He began to strip out of his pajamas, and you looked away. Somehow the image of Sam undressing still brought heat to the surface of your cheeks, to your neck.

You stepped into the tub and stood directly below the showerhead. The water was warm. You hissed when it dripped into your open wounds, but the sting woke you up, bringing you out of your hateful stupor. It felt good, watching the water wash away the blood from your face, your hair, your hands. The pink water went down the drain, disappearing from view. You rubbed at your cheeks, your chin, your forehead. You scraped at your skin and your nails came away caked with dried blood. You knew Sam was behind you, having entered the shower soon after you did, closing the curtain behind him. As you rinsed the blood from your hair, his hands alighted upon your hips, thumbs rubbing your skin in slow, soothing circles. You almost flinched at his touch, but after a moment’s hesitation, you relaxed into him, feeling the length of his body flush with yours.

You stepped back from the spray and grabbed your shampoo bottle, squirting a good amount of it into your palm. You put the bottle back on the shower shelf and rubbed your hands together before carding them through your hair. Almost immediately, Sam’s hands replaced yours, lathering your hair until the liquid had reached a thick white foam. You sighed as he massaged your scalp, leaning back into him and closing your eyes, pretending for a moment that you deserved this.

Sam pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck. “Turn around,” he mumbled against your skin. You obliged, facing him and tipping your head back as he rinsed the shampoo from your hair, fingers lithely detangling. Your eyes stayed closed; if you were to open them, you would see Sam’s tired eyes and bruised face, see the scars you had left on Sam’s collarbone the last time you had lost control.

You wanted to pretend for a little bit longer. Sam wasn’t having any of that.

“Y/N.” His hands had left your hair. He was reaching for the conditioner. “I know you’re hurting.”

You grunted noncommittally. He was ruining the delusion. Then he was asking you to turn, and his fingers were in your hair again, and you were able to continue pretending. You were a regular couple, college sweethearts, showering after a rough day at the office. Hellion? The Falcon? Never heard of them.

“Y/N, if you don’t talk about it—”

“Sam, _stop_ ,” you barked, more sharply than you had intended, but his insistence had drawn your irritation to the surface. You cracked open your eyes, staring down at the shower floor, where blood still swirled around the drain. “Please,” you added, and this time, your voice shook.

Sam went on kneading the conditioner into your hair, making sure to coat it to the end of each strand. You could feel his heart against your shoulder blade, beating evenly. He always let his guard down around you. What if you lost it? What if you were to spin around and pin him up against the shower wall, ready to transform into Hellion and rip his throat open? What if—?

“Y/N.”

In your trance, you had turned around to face Sam. He was watching you with a grim look in his eyes. Your hands were lined up where his shoulders met his neck on either side. You let them drop to your sides, tightening into fists, and pivoted so he could continue conditioning your hair. “Sorry,” you breathed, your voice barely audible above the showerhead.

Sam’s arms encircled your waist, pulling you against him. You writhed in his grasp, wanting to be as far away from him as possible, but he held you firmly, his face tucked against your neck, swaying you from side to side quietly. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he told you.

“Yeah, but it happened,” you spat, not knowing whether he meant the incident with Steve or the incident just now. Probably both. “I can’t be here. I need to leave.”

“You need us now more than ever.”

“I could _kill you!”_  you snapped, twisting around to look at Sam. Your eyes were practically flaring with your outrage. You could feel all the anger you’ve held since the mission bubbling out of you. “How can you sit there and tell me I deserve to be here for one more second when I could kill anyone here? I could kill Steve, I could kill Nat, I could kill Bucky, I could kill _you_ , Sam! I could kill you and not even remember it. I wouldn’t even remember killing you. And I would _enjoy_ it!”

Sam’s jaw ticked. “It’s not you, Y/N, it’s—”

“Hellion? We’re _the same!”_  you screeched. By now, Sam had released you, and so you took a step back. “We are the same person and there is no telling who is who when we’re in that state. When _I’m_  in that state.”

“The fact that you see the trouble with killing us tells me that it’s not you, Y/N,” Sam murmured, stepping toward you. You took another step back, your back pressed to the tile wall beneath the showerhead. “A monster wouldn’t feel remorse. A monster wouldn’t regret almost killing their teammate.” He stood right in front of you, his hands palming your hips. “I see you, and I know you’re not a monster. Not now. Not ever. You can do this. You can be in control. It’s all you.”

You scowled up at him indignantly for a few moments longer, tears brimming in yours eyes, before breaking down in his arms. He hugged you while sobs racked through your body, your wails filling the air as the water beat down on the both of you. You held Sam around the waist, trembling against him, your eyes shut tight as you hid your face in the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse thump lightly against your cheek. He mumbled sweet words into your shoulder, kissing your skin over and over.

Why did he keep coming back?

“Sam,” you croaked. He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your tears blurred your vision; you blinked them away, sniffling loudly. “Sam, if I lose myself again, you have to put an end to it.”

“Baby—”

“You can’t let me hurt anyone, Sam,” you said. You swallowed, struggling to steady your voice. His hand came up to frame your cheek, wiping your tears away. “If I lose it, you need to end it. You can’t let me hurt you.” Your eyes settled on the angry red scars on his chest over his heart, where your claws had sliced him open. “Never again.”

Sam sighed, leaning your foreheads together. “I know you won’t hurt me,” he murmured sweetly. “Never again.”

You smiled weakly. Sam rinsed the conditioner from your hair before moving on to wash your body. He had told you countless times how much he loved the scent of your body wash, and he told you so now, eliciting a laugh from you as he rubbed the frothy shower pouf over your naked form. He knelt down to wash your legs, peeking up at you with his lower lip caught between his teeth when he ran the pouf between your thighs. He kissed your soapy hipbone, and you returned the favor, washing him and taking your time, mapping out the planes of his body like you had so many times before. He was muscular, but soft around his middle. You both stood under the showerhead to rinse, watching as the water flushed away the suds from each other’s bodies. You turned off the water, and before you could hop out, Sam pulled you in for a kiss, his hands framing your face, his lips moving against yours tenderly. Your hands came up to cover his, and you broke the kiss to touch your lips to his palm. He smiled, pulling back the curtain for you to step out.

Sam dried you off, patting you down with a towel, humming some tune you didn’t recognize. By now, most of your wounds had closed up, and your bruises had yellowed with age. He went out to your bedroom and retrieved some underwear and pajamas for you: one of his T-shirts and a pair of worn sweatpants. He dressed you, always so gentle. Your eyes were tearing up, despite you enjoying yourself.

You dressed him, kissing him when you had finished, and the two of you lay down on your bed, facing each other. Sam brought your hand to his lips and kissed each of your fingers. You closed your eyes, pretending again that you were a normal couple, cuddling together after a long day, having been in love since the moment you first saw each other. You took his hand and kissed it just as he had kissed yours.

Tomorrow, you would apologize to Steve. You would let the illusion stop, wake up and remind yourself that you really were an Avenger. But tonight… tonight…

You sighed. Even you couldn’t pretend forever.

You opened your eyes, struggling to get the words out. They came out in a choked whisper against Sam’s palm.

 _“I_ _killed you.”_

Sam smiled. His face lit up with that big, heartwarming smile that made you toes tingle, made you want to throw your arms around his neck and hold him forever. “I’m still here,” he murmured, and you knew it wasn’t real.

You knew he wasn’t here, lying beside you. You remembered waking up drenched in Sam’s blood, his broken body cradled lifelessly in your arms. You remembered screaming in agony when they took him from you, put him in a body bag and zipped it up, hiding him from view. You remembered hiding away in the tower during his funeral, shuddering on the floor, surrounded by the mess that had once been your room. You remembered saying his name and Steve reminding you that he wasn’t there, that Sam was gone. Yet you still saw him, a year later, every day, smiling at you, kissing your bruised knuckles when you beat the punching bag too hard. It was like he was still there with you. Holding you. Loving you.

“Hey.” Sam’s face was in front of yours. His hand was on your cheek. “C’mere.” He opened his arms and you snuggled into them, settling against him comfortably. The two of you fit together so perfectly, but it wasn’t the same. Your “Sam” was a pillow, and it wasn’t the same.

Maybe one day it would feel real, but in the meantime, you could pretend.

**Author's Note:**

> so i’m midway through writing this and i think to myself: “wait. you know what would be great?”
> 
> “what would be great?”
> 
> “if you killed him. kill sam.”
> 
> “WHAT NO THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A COMFORT FIC”
> 
> “but think about it: you never mention sam interacting with anyone. you could kill him off. sixth sense style.”
> 
> “you… you make a good point. but i could never…”
> 
> “yes you could. and you WILL.”
> 
> “OK.”
> 
> and so i wrote this and i would like to be launched into the sun, thanks.


End file.
